


To Procreate Death

by rednihilist



Category: Rectify (TV)
Genre: Bittersweet, Drama, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-15
Updated: 2015-08-15
Packaged: 2018-04-14 18:43:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4575567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rednihilist/pseuds/rednihilist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You are my brother," Amantha says, "and there isn't anything in this world or the next I wouldn't do for you, except maybe the whole Christmas thing. You know I hate Christmas, Daniel."</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Procreate Death

**Author's Note:**

> No characters belong to me & no profit is gained from this writing, only enjoyment.
> 
> Takes place in season one.

Somewhere he'd read that an adolescent's brain is stunted by the prolonged consumption of alcohol. Furthermore, youth who drink to excess run a greater risk of incurring emotional damage as well, potentially locking themselves into a body with not only diminished intellectual acuity, but also pronounced emotional immaturity. Interesting. Personally relevant, one might say. No way for Daniel to gauge the veracity of such a claim. Only subject he's had is himself, and he's not exactly unbiased, now is he? Maybe the idea's enough. Maybe he is really 15 or 16 forever, not in body, just mind, just where it matters. Mind over matter.

  
Perhaps that explains or contextualizes it. He prefers emotional immaturity over instability, mental deficiency in place of psychopathy. Jared is 15 in mind, body, and soul, and yet he's the older brother in their seedling of a relationship. Daniel's going to be 38 in three months, but really all he's got going for him is his ability to legally drink and drive, though of course not concurrently. That would be illegal. Seems besides the two activities, most everything for him is illegal.

As it should be.

"Brother," Amantha says around her cigarette, "you are running on empty." She haphazardly tips some of the beer in her glass into his.

"Share and share alike, Sister," he says, making her smile.

She leans on him then, her head resting on his left shoulder, the two of them sitting on the brick of the back patio. Daniel's eyes sting as he blinks rapidly.

"Oh, brother," Amantha whispers.

Daniel nods, breathes deep. A perfect moment.

"Now isn't this a sight for sore eyes?" Mother says from behind them, voice shaky.

It's suddenly pitch black outside. Lights out. Daniel had walked out here before the sun was even setting, and now it's gone completely. Another day dead.

"Daniel, honey," Mother says, walking around to stand at Amantha's side, "did you want anything more to eat? About time to put the leftovers away, but you're more than welcome to have seconds."

Amantha nudges him in the side. "Last call for victuals."

One glance down at Amantha, Daniel then looks up, says, "No, thank you, Mother. I believe I'm fully satiated for the time being."

"Ok, then," she says, smiling and staring. Daniel tries a smile as he looks away.

After several seconds of an increasingly awkward silence, he says, "The grass is very green."

"Oh!" says Mother. "Yes. Well, yes! That's Ted's doing, you know. All his." She waves her hand to indicate the entire backyard.

Amantha makes a sound in the back of her throat, not quite a snort or scoff but something along those lines. Looking at the top of her head and a sliver of her profile, Daniel bounces his left shoulder before he says, "In that case, if you would be so kind as to extend my appreciation of his efforts, I would be grateful, Mother."

There's that throaty noise again. Another bounce. Amantha jabs him in the side with her elbow before carefully navigating her glass to her mouth.

"Uh, certainly," Mother says, "but, Daniel, I'm sure he'd like it more if he heard it from you."

"No," he says, 10 seconds too late and ruining the nice moment they'd been having, "I don't think that's so." Turning back to the grass and trees and patio furniture, the bird bath and flower beds and grill, Daniel says, "Sure is a beautiful spot."

***

He doesn't sleep, not for quite awhile. He can manage cat naps here and there, but only under the right circumstances, namely that no one else is anywhere in the vicinity. Daniel can't see it when he looks at himself in the mirror, but it seems everyone else can. He gathers that if even a person like Ted Jr. is looking concerned, then there's definitely something wrong.

"I'm all right," Daniel says, once again, the glass of water in his hands cold and wet with condensation.

"Ok, honey," Mother says, doubtfully. "It's just—it's awhile till dinner. Why don't you go rest your eyes a bit? I'll have Jared come get you when it's ready."

"I'd rather sit outside," he says, carefully.

There's a moment, just a few seconds, but then she's turning to him and saying, "Daniel, this is your home now. You can do what you want."

He nods, but she sets down the knife and green pepper and takes him by the shoulders.

"Daniel," she says. Waiting.

"Yes, Mother?"

"Go outside, maybe take a chair under the tree, and you have yourself a nice sit, ok?"

He looks up, smiles as she smiles, and says, "Of course. That sounds wonderful."

***

"You want any?" Amantha asks, extending the joint his way.

"No, thank you," he says.

She shrugs but keeps looking at him as she inhales and holds it for what he considers an impressive amount of time.

Upon exhaling though, she's frowning.

"What is it?" he asks, begrudgingly beating her to the punch.

"You think about any of that stuff Jon mentioned? The therapy and whatnot."

"Think the therapy was all he mentioned," Daniel says, wryly. Amantha pulls a face, caught red-handed. "Thank you for meddling," he says suddenly, turning to look her in the eyes, this sister he's spent more time apart from than next to. "I haven't said that. Not really. But I– I don't think you can know how much. . . "

He dies in the final stretch, jerking his head away to stare at the scraggly trees, yellow grass, and weedy gravel that comprise the view from her apartment's tiny balcony. It's beautiful—stark and weathered, lonely and desperate. He likes it a good deal more than Ted's pristine lawn and Mother's robust garden, all green and fat with health.

Amantha's hand lands on his forearm, tiny and thin just like her, but warm and soft all the same. Glancing her way, he sees she's put out the joint and planted her feet firmly. He smiles.

Here it comes.

"You are my brother," she says, "and there isn't anything in this world or the next I wouldn't do for you, except maybe the whole Christmas thing. You know I hate Christmas, Daniel."

"That I do," he says, reaching out with his other hand and placing it on top of hers. Message received.


End file.
